Stealthy
by chronically radioactive
Summary: In which the Lone Wanderer's booty cannot be ignored.


_a/n: Introducing yet another LW of mine. Not quite smut? IDGAF. Enjoy._

* * *

It's been a solid week since Blair returned from her top secret visit to the Outcast base. Butch, for the most part, was kept unawares of the situation, so he's naturally curious about his lady friend's kickass new fighting style. She slips from cover to cover, sneaks up behind whatever enemy is firing blindly at them and just….bam. Kills them. That quickly, whether it's a knife to the gullet or a .44 to the brain.

He doesn't question it, mainly because he doesn't want to be on the receiving end of her badassery, but there's still that gnawing curiosity that gets to him every so often.

It's pretty damn sexy, he has to admit, the way they don't ever see her coming. Blair is so regularly obnoxious and boisterous and tomboy-ish that she stands out easily, and the newly acquired stealth and accuracy protocol her body seems to operate under is…surprisingly hot.

And the suit. Goddamn, that _suit_. He's not sure where she got it, because he certainly doesn't remember toting it around for her after her pack got too heavy - which ends up happening all the time because she's a fucking hoarder.

It's a full-body number, made of some kind of synthetic, slippery-looking material, probably like…he's not even sure. All Butch knows is that it's skintight and form fitting and leaves abso-fucking-lutely _nothing_ to the imagination.

Blair wears it pretty often, just because it's the best defense she's got on her at the moment, and it's a helluva lot lighter than her usual combat armor. He feels a little guilty, sometimes, because he'll opt to take the back of their little traveling caravan (consisting of him, the mutt, Blair, and the scary-as-fuck bodyguard of hers).

That way, everybody wins. Blair and Dogmeat lead and Butch takes the back where he's able to enjoy the awesome, stealth-suit clad view.

He's busy staring at it when they get jumped halfway between the Republic of Dave and Old Olney.

"I tell ya, that bastard had it made. Two birds to get his rocks off? That's the life, huh mutt?" Butch hoots, but the dog only side-eyes him. Butch opens his mouth to speak at the same moment bullets whiz over his head.

Instinctively he crouches, pulls out his gun, and starts firing. Dogmeat bounds away, lunging at the Raiders attacking them and tearing at their exposed skin. Blair is suddenly gone, but Butch can make out the shimmery figure slipping towards the other two attackers. He smirks, and then goes back to firing.

Half an hour later, Blair and Butch have finished cleaning the old hotel of the small Raider populace. Blair propped open the front door and sets up a campfire on the front steps, adding light to the front lobby so they could scavenge more efficiently.

Dogmeat rests by the orange flames, kicking and whining in his sleep. Blair returns from the basement, wiping her hands on the dark material of her stealth suit as she enters the room.

"Generator's back on, so the rooms should have electricity now," she says triumphantly. Butch flashes her a thumbs up before scooping up a handful of engraved keys.

"This hotel is now property of the motherfuckin' Tunnel Snakes!"

"Fuck yeah, Tunnel Snakes rule!"

Neither of them have even touched their jackets in a long, long while. But, the fact that she actually plays along to his stupid gang game makes Blair even _awesomer_. She's kinda a pain in the ass to travel with sometimes, but Butch isn't stupid – he knows he can be an obnoxious asshole too.

It's another forty minutes before Blair gets the furnace on, and another fifteen until they're finally able to find a livable floor of the hotel. Radroaches scurry across the hall in most, and Butch refuses to sleep in the same general vicinity as the disgusting, fuckin' terrifying bugs.

Blair, still in her stealth suit, stands at the open window of the hotel's penthouse, staring at Tennpenny Tower in the distance.

"You gonna take his deal, B?" Butch wonders, leaning back on the comfortable Pre-War couch he'd plopped himself down on the second he saw it. This place was _real_ fancy.

"Dunno. Maybe the reason Crowley wants all these keys is because there's something amazing locked in that fort?"

Her back is to him, but he can practically see the mischievous grin that spreads across her face.

"We could just get all the keys…find that fort…deal with Crowley later?"

Butch nods his agreement when she turns around.

"Damn good plan."

She curtsies cheekily, and then reaches up to press a button on her suit's wrist. The visor of her helmet disappears, and then she removes the headgear entirely.

Butch stares, because fuck it, he does what he wants and Blair is hot. She's got thick, sandy blonde hair - the kind that he wants to tug at. Her face is covered with a spray of dark brown freckles, and her eyes are this really great shade of hazel. Not to mention her mouth, dammit.

Butch stares at that particular feature the longest, watching as she recites the day's events into her Pip-Boy, watching her lips move around words that he's not paying attention to. He likes those lips, mainly because of her infamous, sexy grins. She kinda gets this glint in her eye, this dangerous spark, and her lips'll twist up in a half-smirk. It does strange things to his insides.

Suddenly, Butch is insanely glad he's not the one wearing a skin-tight suit, because fuck if he's not trying to hide the biggest stiffy ever.

"End of day. Audio off. Record to blank holotape. "

Butch takes a swig of his whiskey, slowly sinking into the comfortable couch. Blair does a quick inventory check of their packs, counting up the items they'll sell to the next caravan, what guns they'll be needing, and how much food she has to ration up.

Fueled by liquid courage and the way Blair's bending down to sort through their shit, Butch clears his throat to speak.

"Y'know what else is damn good?"

A pause, because Blair ain't stupid either and he knows how this is going to end.

"You." He draws out the word without meaning to.

Blair, to his relief, only snorts at the terrible pick-up line.

"You are so, so drunk," she sing-songs. Butch suddenly becomes serious, spurred on by her teasing.

"No I'm fuckin' serious. Have you seen yourself fight lately? A plus effort."

Another span of silence, probably the moment that Blair takes to appreciate the genuine compliment and bask in the blinding hot glory that is her ego.

"Also, your ass in that suit. Makes my goddamn day."

Now the pause is way too long, almost awkwardly so. He doesn't really care, but _Blair_ of all people being at a loss for words is…curious.

"You like the suit?" she finally asks, and there's something strange and dark about her voice that sets his nerves on fire. He's pretty unsure now, regretting his obvious flirtations.

Butch just nods, because now she's facing him, standing a few feet away and looking oddly…blank. There's nothing to read about her expression. He nods again, swallows, and says, "Fuck yeah."

She's on him in what seems like less than a second, perched comfortably on his lap. Butch doesn't even know he's being kissed until she breaks away for air. The second time her lips lower to his, he's ready. Hands immediately begin to explore, because neither of them are new to…_this._

Butch winds his fingers up her back, pressing against her spine and pulling her closer. Blair obliges, rocking their hips together with a delicious friction, and he wonders why they haven't done this sooner because _fuck._

"No," she demands suddenly, removing her palms from his shoulders. She slides them down his arms, slowly and deliberately, eventually catching his wrists and pulling them away from her body. It's not too hard for Blair to beat him in a game of strength, and he's not really putting up a fight for obvious reasons.

So he lets her pin his wrists above his head, where they're pressed against the wall above the couch. Butch is forced to squirm to accommodate her weight on his thighs and the pressure on his arms. The movements cause her to be bumped around. Butch catches a decidedly predatory smile on her lips before his eyes shut – a direct result of her grinding away against his thigh.

The suit, the goddamn _suit. _She's nimble and agile without it, but the slippery material makes her glide against his jeans with such ease and _God_ does it feel good.

Either Butch is a sex genius without doing shit, or Blair's putting on a show. This kinda pisses him off, but he really doesn't feel like acting on that annoyance.

Blair lets go of his wrists and pushes her palms onto his chest, still working her hips. She smirks at him before tipping her head back and…_holy fuck_ _that noise _do not _stop making that noise, shit. _Butch lifts his arm, slapping her hand from his chest before burying his fingers into her thick hair.

He's pretty fucking clever, figuring that she likes her hair pulled. Each tug makes her groan, a real sound, desperate and needy sounding.

"Get out of the suit," he rasps suddenly, dropping his hands and refusing to continue.

Blair smirks, damn her. "Thought you liked the suit?"

"Like you more," he breathes, almost entirely incapable of forming whole sentences, now that the lust is clouding his brain.

She complies, albeit a bit slowly, so Butch assists with the zipper on the suit's back, desperately clawing at the metal, eager to get her out of the confining armor. The second the top of the suit is off, Butch pushes the material down her shoulders and lifts the sports bra over her head excitedly.

Blair shivers at the cold air, tucking her arms across her chest pointedly.

"It's fucking cold," she announces, like he can't fucking tell. "Carry me to the bed."

He has half a mind to call her out on her better-than-thou command, but scoops her up and tosses her onto the centuries-old mattress anyway.

She bounces a little, scrambling up towards the headboard as he kneels above her, grinning ferociously. Blair grins back, defiant as ever. The suit hangs at her waist, revealing only her flat, toned stomach and pale skin. He wants to push it down farther.

She sits up to undo his zipper, and Butch grins triumphantly, trying to stop himself from blowing his load at the fucking _sight_ of Blair between his knees.

_Ya luck bastard, look at you. Blair. Eye length with your c-_

"What?" he gasps.

"I asked how long you've been fantasizing about the suit," Blair whispers, pulling his body down to hers.

In a matter of minutes they're both incredibly, wholly, undeniably naked, and Butch is fulfilling just about every wet dream he's had since he was sixteen. It's probably the best experience of his life, and the fact that she seems to be enjoying it makes it _all_ the more satisfying.

She finishes with a loud "Fuck!", much faster than he had been expecting. The squeezing, warm, spasms around him are surprising and insanely pleasurable, so he tumbles over the edge right after her, gasping and jerking and entirely too happy for someone out in the goddamn Wasteland.

He tries not to collapse on top of her, but his limps are shaking and he's so exhausted that he just can't help it. He flops down, playfully, onto her chest, stretching his sticky arms and legs like he's going to fall asleep.

"No you don't," Blair whispers, smug and breathless _still. _She stops combing her fingers through his hair, and Butch immediately misses the comforting gesture. "You still haven't answered my question. How long?"

"Way too goddamn long," Butch replies, silencing the disgruntled and grumpy woman with a purposefully sloppy kiss. He eyes the suit, thrown against the armchair in the corner of the room.

_Dear Chinese stealth guys,_

_Thanks._

_From Butch_


End file.
